The Third Quarter Quell
by Sassy Assassins
Summary: The Hunger Games with a twist, written from Peeta's point of view. Instead of the first book of the series taking place during the 74th annual Games, it takes place during the 75th Games. The Quarter Quell rules have changed. What will they be? More chapters to come.
1. The Girl in the Rain

Chapter 1

The Girl in the Rain

I yank open the brick oven and heat shoves outward, causing my face to flush and the hairs on my arms to singe. The toasted, nutty perfume of baking bread greets me like a welcome friend. I pierce the bread with a knife, and it slides easily into each scalding loaf, the blade coming out clean.

 _Nearly done,_ I think tomyself _. Just another minute for the crust to darken._

I close the oven door, trapping the heat back inside, and turn towards the window. Rain droplets catch on the smoky glass surface and tremble before sliding down. A few merge together and fall as one, no longer alone. I peer past the droplets into the night and imagine how it would be to no longer feel alone.

Father left us when I was no more than four years old. A toddler, running barefoot through District 12 with an empty flour sack for a hat. What was there not to love in an innocent boy? Mother had never been the same after he had gone. I didn't need to be older than four to remember how she changed. Her heart turned cold, her voice constantly harsh with impatience. I could never do enough to please her.

Movement by the old, rope swing outside catches my attention. I rub the fog from the glass to be sure it is really her. Her brown hair, pulled into a braid, drapes over her shoulder, water dripping from it's tail.

Katniss.

Her face is gaunt, pale and thin, and she struggles to keep her eyes open against the rain, or perhaps against exhaustion. She looks so weak, as if she hasn't eaten in days. I inch closer to the window in order to see her better. She _hasn't_ eaten in days, I realize.

I vaguely register the smell of the bread, finally baked to perfection. I reach to the side for some thick rags to remove the pans. Yet, I cannot turn away from her.

Katniss has been absent from school for three days, and I cringe with sadness knowing that three days ago was most likely the last time she ate. Those days when I do see her, her gray eyes shine and her face is alive with vigor. She is happy, her mind on things other than food, other than the upcoming reaping.

Still I know deep down, she never stops worrying. She gives everything to her family. She hunts to provide for them. She looks out for her brother, Aster. She acts the part of caregiver for her mother. Her plate is overflowing with responsibility, but somehow she manages to survive for herself as well. To see the beauty in this bleak world. That is the side of her I wish I knew more.

Suddenly, I smell fire.

I turn back to the oven to see smoke escaping from its cracks. I race to open it, but my mother barges into the kitchen and makes it there first, throwing open the oven door and waving her arm to clear the air. When she pulls the bread out, the crusts are charred black. We could never sell it and make a profit.

"What the hell were you doing, boy? Daydreaming?" she shouts at me, raising her hand to smack me. She does. Hard. "Do you know how much money you just cost me?"

Tears spring to my eyes, and my mother's voice becomes a dull drone in the background. As I bring my hand up to my burning cheek, trying to comprehend the quick change of events, I think of how Katniss has dealt with far worse. I glance sideways to the window and find her in the dark. She is alone out there - damp, cold, and hungry. Katniss's thin frame slides to the ground as I watch, and my heart clenches in my chest. I want to go to her

"Are you even listening to me?" my mother screams. Before I can reply, she yanks my shirt and drags me to the door, throwing it open and shoving loaf after blackened loaf into my hands. It's scalding, searing my fingers.

"Feed it to the pigs. That's all it's good for now. And don't even think about stepping near the oven again tonight," my mother spits in disgust. "Go ice the cakes, if you think you can manage without screwing them up too."

Quickly, I duck outside, closing the door behind me as my mother stomps away to start a new batch of bread. Ignoring her instructions, I walk out into the rain, past the pig pen. The pigs don't need the bread.

As I draw closer, I notice that Katniss's eyes are closed, her head resting against the trunk of an elm tree. I lower to squat beside her, the bread cradled in my arms. Her breathing comes out in shallow gasps.

"Katniss," I say quietly, trying not to startle her. Her eyes flutter open, and I think that if she weren't too weak to show it, she would be surprised to see me.

"Take this." I gently hand her the burnt bread. Her eyes fill with _hunger_ , _need,_ _craving_.

"Peeta...I don't need it," she lies. Her voice is soft and tired, but I love it.

"You may as well take it, or it'll go to the pigs."

Katniss seems not to hear me. Her eyes slowly close, and a light crease appears between her eyebrows.

I touch her shoulder. "Why are you out here in the rain?"

Lifting her head, Katniss nods to a soaked, burlap sack ten feet away. "I went to the Hob to trade Aster's baby clothes, but nobody would take them."

"Well then you shouldn't go home empty handed. Take the bread."

Her eyes meet mine and after a long pause, she questions, "Why are you helping me?"

"You would do the same for me."

Katniss nods in agreement, leaning back against the tree. "Can you put them with the clothes?"

"Of course." I stand and walk to the burlap sack, dropping the loaves in one by one.

Turning back, I see Katniss trying to stand, using the tree for support. I hurry back to help, holding out my hand for her to take. As she reaches towards me, her eyes glaze over, her small body falling forward. Instinctively, I circle my arms around her torso and gently lower us both to the ground, her head resting against my chest.


	2. Her Little Brother

Chapter 2

Her Little Brother

"Peeta?"

Ms. Everdeen takes in the sight standing on her doorstep; my hair is disheveled, raindrops dripping down to catch in my eyelashes, and I cradle Katniss's limp body in my arms. Her rucksack is thrown over my shoulder.

"I found her outside the bakery," I explain apologetically, as if I had something to do with Katniss's whereabouts. "She was at the Hob and well, she passed out on her way home." I decide against sharing the entire story.

For a moment, Ms. Everdeen stares in bewilderment before stepping back and hurriedly inviting me in.

"Bring her in here." Ms. Everdeen rushes to open a door to the far left.

Stepping inside, I can only assume this is Katniss's bedroom. The walls are painted a papery green, and hanging from corner to corner are strings of dried leaves. Katniss probably collected them over the course of the autumn hunting season and pressed them in books so they would keep their shape. Next to the unmade bed sits a small, wooden nightstand with an unframed photograph of a man dressed in a District 12 miner's uniform. The father Katniss lost in the mining accident six years ago.

Ms. Everdeen grabs a pile of spare blankets from the rocking chair in the corner behind me and spreads them over the bed. Then she strides over to me and, with some difficulty, strips off Katniss's rain soaked jacket and muddied boots.

"I am going to hang these over the fire to dry." She shakes the dripping garments, sending a sprinkle of water onto the wall. "Hopefully, the blankets will be enough to keep her warm. You can put her in the bed now." Circling around me, she exits the bedroom.

I walk to the bedside and gently lower Katniss to the mattress, taking care to keep her head cushioned on the pillow. My arms suddenly feel light. Empty.

"Please, Katniss," I whisper. "Open your eyes so I know you are alright."

Delicately, I brush strands of hair from her face and tuck them behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cool skin.

Almost as if in response, Katniss parts her lips, ragged breaths escaping as she slowly gains consciousness. I quickly withdraw my hand.

"What's wrong with Katniss?" a tiny voice sounds from the doorway.

I turn to see Katniss's little brother, Aster, only his head and his shoulders visible as he peers sideways into the room.

Before I can speak, I hear Katniss reply, "Don't you worry about me, Aster. I'm just tired." Her eyes never open. Reluctantly, I straighten and guide Aster out of the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

"Katniss is going to be fine," I tell him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Looking to Ms. Everdeen again, I say, "I brought some bread. It's burnt around the edges, but if I shave off the sides, it would do well in a stew. Katniss should eat something. I think hunger is the reason she passed out." My eyes peruse the room, looking at anything but Ms. Everdeen. I do not want her to think I blame her for her children's empty stomachs.

Most everyone is hungry in District 12. I am fortunate that my family's business is the most favored bakery in the district. People always need bread so we always have customers. Not to mention, we always have spare scraps of dough left over for our meals. We rarely need to worry about starving.

"Stew is a splendid idea." Ms. Everdeen offers a small smile in thanks.

Turning to the young boy in front of me, I say, "Do you think you have what it takes to help me make the stew, Aster?" I raise my eyebrows in challenge.

His face breaking into a grin, Aster nods confidently. "I'm going to be a chef someday. Or a baker like you!"

I am taken aback. Aster and I have rarely spoken save the few times when Katniss sent him to buy bread at the bakery. I recall watching his wide eyes as he perused the shelves of fresh sponge cakes, slathered with buttercream icing. One time, he became so excited to share what he saw with Katniss that he left the bakery without his bread. I had to run after him.

I suppose I shouldn't feel so surprised that he wants to become a baker.

I set Aster up at the kitchen counter to tear large chunks of bread as I begin preparing the broth. After an hour of cooking, the finished stew simmers over the fire. I stir in the torn pieces of bread and allow it to soak before dishing the dinner into wooden bowls.

Handing two bowls to Aster, I commend him. "Your stew smells wonderful. One bowl is for you, and take the other to your mother." Ms. Everdeen disappeared into the bedroom shortly after hanging the wet clothes, and I haven't seen her since.

I fill a third bowl to the brim and carry it carefully to Katniss's bedroom. The bed sinks with my weight as I sit at the edge, causing the crease between Katniss's eyebrows to return. She turns her head away from me.

"Please, Katniss," I whisper, dipping a spoon into the stew. "Eat just a little for me."

Her eyes flutter open and when she looks back towards me, I see confusion in her expression.

"Peeta?" she croaks. "What are you doing here?"

"Shh, I'll explain later. Right now, you really need to get some food into your body." I extend the spoon to her mouth and she takes her first bite.

I'm surprised that she does not argue or question me further. Her exhaustion must be weighing her down. After finishing half the bowl, she relaxes back on the pillow and falls asleep almost instantly.

For the rest of the evening, I clean up the kitchen and store the leftover stew for future meals. Keeping me company, Aster sprawls on the floor by the fire to do homework.

"What grade are you in again?" I ask him.

"Sixth grade, but Katniss says I'm smart enough to be in tenth!" Looking up from his paper, he smiles modestly.

"So you're eleven or twelve years old now?"  
"Twelve."

A pang of sorrow grips me as I suddenly realize Aster is old enough to have his name put in the reaping. I have to hide my emotions as I answer. "Better be careful. Before you know it, you'll be seventy like Greasy Sae."

Aster stares at me in horror and I have to laugh.

"Come on little buck. How about bedtime? It's getting late."

He nods his head vigorously and, leaving his papers strewn across the floor, runs to the washroom to wash up. When he finally crawls into bed, I tuck him in and kneel down next to him.

"The reaping is tomorrow." Aster whispers into the darkness.

"Hey." I put my hand on his shoulder to soothe him. "Are you thinking about the Games because of what we were talking about earlier? With you turning twelve?"

My eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness yet, so I don't see him nod, but I hear his head move back and forth over the cotton pillowcase.

"I'm sorry that I brought it up, Aster. Remember - your name will only be in that bowl once. One tiny piece of paper out of hundreds of others. They're not going to pick you."

"I guess not," he says halfheartedly.

"What does Katniss do to help when you're sad?" I ask, searching for a way to reassure him.

"Sometimes she sings," he states, his voice hopeful.

I gulp down a sigh. I have never been much of a singer, but there is no turning back now. I remember an old folk song that has been sung by our people to children generation after generation to instill hope for peace and freedom. My mother used to sing it to me when I was young. Shakily, I begin.

 _Deep in the meadow, the songbird sings_

 _A gentle lullaby he brings_

 _Hush now your cries, for I am here_

 _I will watch o'er you, so do not fear_

 _Listen my child, the songbird sings_

 _Carries a song on snow white wings_

 _Rest now your head, you're safe and sound_

 _Sleep well and find peace, let dreams abound_

As I whisper the final notes of the lullaby, I can hear Aster's steady breathing rise and fall with sleep. I stand and let my hand slip from his shoulder. Turning to leave, I stop abruptly. Katniss is standing in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around her, her damp hair framing her face, and a soft smile touching her lips.


	3. No Need for Fear

Chapter 3

No Need for Fear

"You're very good with him," Katniss says, closing the bedroom door behind her. "That's the song that I sing to him, too. How do you know it?"

"My mother sang it to me when I was little. I think it's one of those songs that have been passed down since after the war."

Katniss nods. "I appreciate you staying all evening to take care of him. I heard you both cooking together in the kitchen. You didn't have to do that, you know."

"He's a good kid," I smile, glancing towards Aster's bedroom.

"I mean cook the meal."

I am silent for a moment as I choose my words carefully. "Well I was already here from bringing the bread over from the bakery, so it was no trouble. Besides, you needed the food, Katniss. You passed out, remember?"

She squints in thought. "Honestly, the last thing I clearly remember is seeing you and your mom fighting through the window."

My mouth opens, but no words come out. Biting my lip, I look away in embarrassment.

"She hit you, Peeta," Katniss says softly. I can feel her eyes on my face.

Recalling the sting of my mother's hand, I reply, "There are others in this world that face inequity, feel pain, and experience hardship far worse than I ever have. When I'm in a bad place, I try to remember that, and it helps." I turn back and realize Katniss has shifted closer. "So I don't need you to worry for me."

We are both silent for some time. I am afraid that I may have offended her, but then Katniss speaks.

"Are you scared for the reaping tomorrow?"

"Are you?" I search her eyes, but see no fear. If she feels it at all, she hides it well.

Katniss shakes her head firmly. "It's just another reaping, just like last year. That's what I keep telling Aster. I know the reaping has been heavy on his mind for weeks. I don't want him to worry."

"Well who can blame him? We can't all be so brave." I give her a tight smile.

Katniss looks as if she wants to say more, but instead leads me to the front door to see me out.

"See you in town square in the morning," she says as I step over the threshold. I nod once and head into the dark, raindrops reflecting moonlight as they drip from tree branches.

With a deep exhale, I attempt to force the restless stream of thoughts from my mind, but they rush back just as quickly. After all, tomorrow is the start of the 75th annual Hunger Games.


	4. The Reaping

Chapter 4

The Reaping

I am scared. I may have avoided Katniss's question last night, but I can't deny that right now, I am scared. Panicky. And I have a hard time keeping still, my head ticking side to side like a mourning dove's, alert yet frantic.

I survey the town square, and I see eyes. Wide eyes. Wet eyes. Bloodshot eyes. Hollow eyes.

Innocent eyes.

I can understand the fear I see in every pair that meets mine. We are a sea of fish, too large to slip through the holes of the net that surrounds us.

Dressed in our best clothes, we are grouped in the town square from youngest to oldest with the girls on the right and the boys on the left. I stand in the middle of the boys section, beside my classmates. Peacekeepers line the stone walls of the square. Straight ahead looms a large stage with one microphone positioned in its center. Two massive, glass bowls filled with white slips of paper are placed to one side of the microphone, and a third ornately decorated bowl sits on a pedestal at the other side.

 _The Games are barbaric, and the Capitol is cruel_ , I grind my teeth in anger. Decades ago, rebellions between the Districts and the Capitol broke out, but the Capitol prevailed, defeating Districts 1 through 12 and destroying District 13. As a reminder that the Capitol holds control over the nations and the past must never be repeated, the Hunger Games were created. Every year, one boy and one girl are chosen at each District's reaping. They are then placed together in a Capitol arena where they must fight to the death. Only one victor is crowned at the end of the Games. Only one survives.

I hear the dull murmurs around me fade as a woman struts onto the stage. I scan her outfit from head to foot, incredulously. Royal purple hair falls in thick curtains, hiding a quarter of her face and cascading down to her waist. Makeup is caked onto her face so thick that I wonder what she actually looks like without it. With her ruby lips pursed and painted eyebrows raised, she looks as if she just tasted something sour. A coral dress rimmed with soft, white feathers accentuates the glowing skin of her shoulders and flares out at her legs. Her glittery high-heeled shoes are incredibly tall, yet somehow she manages to walk with a tiptoe gait across the stage.

This is Effie Trinket, straight from the Capitol.

"Welcome, citizens of District 12, to the 75th annual Hunger Games!" Effie's sing-song voice echoes through the microphone. "And what a special year it is. This year we celebrate the Third Quarter Quell!" She brings her hands together in a flutter of applause. No one joins in. "Similarly to past Quarter Quells, the rules have changed.

"To remind the districts that you can never predict the consequences of rebellion, the _number_ of tributes selected to compete in this year's Hunger Games will be drawn at random." Effie gestures to the now ominous, colorful bowl beside her. "A maximum of six tributes per district may be chosen."

My head spins. Six? Two tributes are devastating enough, guaranteeing at least one child's death from District 12, but six? Five children would die, and that is only _if_ one from District 12 manages to win.

"Shall we begin?" Teetering on her heels, Effie approaches the decorative bowl. She makes a show of swirling the contents before plucking out a single slip of paper.

"And the number of tributes competing from District 12 is…" she deliberately pauses.

 _One_ , I will the paper to read. _Just one. Is there a zero in there somewhere?_

"Five!"

Gasps shoot off like arrows. My head whips around at the sound of mothers wailing and fathers shouting indignantly in the back of the square.

Five tributes. Five of us will be forced into the Games. My mind wrestling my emotions, I try to remember how many times my name is in that bowl. How many times did our family need supplies? How many times did I trade my name on a slip of paper for a sack of grain? I suddenly can't remember.

"Settle down, settle down please!" Effie squeals into the microphone. "It is an honor to be chosen, an honor to offer more tributes. The Capitol thanks you for your contribution to the Games." The crowd immediately sobers at her words. I imagine death glares streaking from each person in the crowd to Effie's smiling and seemingly unabashed face.

With a small noise comparable to that of a clucking hen, Effie continues. "It is now time to choose our five tributes. I will select two girls and two boys," she gestures towards the respective bowls, "and then mix the batch to choose our fifth. The best of luck to all of you, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor.

"Ladies first."

Effie walks over to the first bowl and buries her hand in the mound of papers until her fingers find one deemed worthy. She pulls it out and walks back to the microphone. In a voice clear as crystal, she reads the name.

"Katniss Everdeen."

Silence. Stillness at first and then the rapid turning of heads. My eyes immediately find her on the other side of the square, and I watch as she makes her way through the crowd, escorted by Peacekeepers. She does not cry. She does not shake. She pushes forward, not with pride, but with striking determination. When she reaches the center, I see her extend a hand to someone in the front row of the boys section. The twelve year-olds. Aster.

It feels as though someone shoved their fist into my chest and squeezed, making my heart swell and quiver on the brink of exploding. I watch, eyes wide, as Katniss steps onto the stage, her thin body appearing impossibly frail next to Effie's healthy, decorated figure. This girl, this beautiful girl, does not deserve this. She can't go into the arena. Against Careers that train day and night for the Games, she won't stand a chance. _And I can't lose her._ I never had the chance to know her - to discover her quirks and learn what drives her spirit. I rake my hands through my hair in distress, and I bite my lip until I taste blood.

When I manage to focus back on the ringing of the microphone, I hear another name.

"Madge Undersee." Effie announces the second tribute.

This time, gasps come from the parent's behind us as a well-dressed girl with dirty blonde hair twirled in a bun steps out of line. Madge is the Governor's daughter. To think the Governor's child has no special privilege, is equal to the rest of us, is difficult to fathom. How many times must her name have been in the bowl? Once? Twice? Out of thousands of names, the Governor's daughter was called. When Madge steps onstage, I see Katniss slip her hand into Madge's.

"Gentlemen," Effie says, and the whispers around me quiet.

Gentlemen. Boys. Me. This could be me. It could be my name. I work to keep a composed face as Effie fishes out a slip of paper from the second bowl.

 _Not me,_ I pray. _Please don't say my name_.

And she doesn't.

"Aster Everdeen."

The protesting cries that erupt from the crowd are astonishingly loud. Aster. My body is frozen, and all I can do is watch the innocent, little boy who I made stew with last night, who I sang to, and who I promised would _not_ be chosen, step forward. I see tears rimming his eyes and he hugs his arms around himself to contain the shivers raking through his whole body.

My eyes become frantic, darting in every direction for some sign that this is not happening. And then they lock on Katniss. Katniss drops to her knees, her hands covering the anguished scream that escapes her mouth as she watches her little brother ascend the stage stairs. And that is what pushes me into action. I yell Aster's name as I shove through the throng of people.

"I volunteer!" I shout, once I'm free. I realize that I am anything but free. "I volunteer as tribute!"

The commotion from the crowd elevates, but my eyes never leave Katniss. I watch her as my words reach the stage. I watch her as Aster is pulled back to safety into the fray of people. I watch her as I'm ushered on stage by the Peacekeepers.

When I stop beside her, words caught in my throat, she stands and throws herself at me, hugging me with all the strength she can muster.

"Peeta, thank you," she chokes out. I wrap my arms around her while I struggle to come to terms with the decision I have just made.

Effie procures a handkerchief and dabs at her eyes. "A volunteer, how thrilling! Do tell us your name, young man." Effie pulls me away from Katniss and up to the microphone. The town square is deafeningly silent.

"Peeta Mellark," I say brokenly.

"Excellent. Let's give a warm round of applause for District 12's very first volunteer!" Effie claps enthusiastically.

There is no responding applause. In the corner of the square, I see an elderly man bring three fingers to his lips and raise his hand in the air. To my awe, others join in until every hand in the square is raised in respectful salute.

Effie surveys the crowd uncomfortably, before continuing. "Let us move along then." She selects a new slip of paper from the second bowl and reads it aloud.

"Gale Hawthorne."

A boy breaks through the crowd. I size him up, considering for the first time that I will have to fight against these other tributes once the Games begin. Gale is at least twice my size and he wears a stony expression, unyielding. I swallow hard. I'm fairly strong from lifting the sacks of flour every day at the bakery, but Gale clearly surpasses me in strength. It is abundantly clear at this point that the odds are no longer in my favor.

"And now, for our fifth and final tribute!" Effie exclaims, striding over to the two glass bowls. She pours the contents of one bowl into the other and mixes the papers together.

Effie's hand disappears into the overflowing bowl. When her hand resurfaces, she holds a single slip of paper.

One more person's life is about to change. I hear a sharp intake of breath, and then Effie speaks in a hushed tone.

"Peeta Mellark."


	5. The Odds Are Never In Our Favor

Chapter 5

The Odds Are Never In Our Favor

My head snaps in Effie's direction. She mutters my name again under her breath, her whisper hissing through the microphone. She sends a perplexed look in my direction.

My mind clouds over. _What does this mean?_ _How will this affect my fate?_ Katniss nervously slips her hand around my wrist, her fingers loose. We exchange a quiet glance.

Effie approaches the Peacekeepers at the rear of the stage. I watch as one Peacekeeper pulls a curiously intricate remote device from his belt and presses several buttons. After a few seconds, a small blue-tinted hologram appears above the device with an image of something moving. I can't make it out.

Hastily, Effie ducks into a backstage doorway with no explanation.

Thousands of eyes bore into me from every direction, and I cannot bring myself to meet them. Instead I stare at a cluster of grooves in the concrete floor I stand on - the only solid thing I can register right now. I feel my heartbeat vibrate across my skin like ticking raindrops against glass bottles. Katniss's voice pulls me back from the darkness edging into my peripheral vision.

"You saved my brother," she whispers. "I owe you everything for that. I'll stick by you no matter what happens." Her fingers brush down to my palm, and I grasp her hand for strength.

Wobbling back onstage, Effie resumes her position in front of the microphone. The air is still as if everyone in the town square is holding their breath.

"There has been a rare occurrence here in District 12," she says, a smile plastered across her face. "Not only have we had our very first volunteer, but the same name has been chosen twice! Quarter Quells are always full of surprises, aren't they?"

"Now according to the rules for the Third Quarter Quell," Effie conjures a piece of paper from a hidden pocket on her dress and begins to read, "' _if it so happens that the same name is drawn twice, the second selection becomes null as the tribute has already been chosen._ ' In this special case, however, it just so happens that the tribute is also a volunteer."

She clears her throat. The square is silent. Waiting.

"After reviewing the rules with the Head Gamemaker, Peeta Mellark's volunteer is void as he has become a traditionally chosen tribute. The subject of his volunteer must reclaim his place as tribute."

Effie carefully folds her piece of paper and returns it to her pocket. With a wave towards the front boy's section in the crowd, Effie proclaims, "Aster Everdeen is the fifth tribute from District 12 for the 75th Hunger Games."

Nothing happens and then everything happens at once. Defiant shouts break out from the townspeople and I see bodies surging forward in protest. Katniss releases my hand and knots her fingers in her hair, tangling and undoing her braid. Together, our eyes frantically search for Aster.

"You can't retract the boy's volunteer!" I hear a middle aged man shout defiantly. He points to me. "That boy did something heroic. And you amount it to nothing!"

Greasy Sae, one of the elderly townsfolk, jerks her walking stick into the air in outrage, her frail voice somehow carrying over the commotion. "You reject the only good that could possibly come out of these horrific traditions! Curse you!" She turns and gestures to a group of older boys and says something I can't hear. They burst into action in response, moving toward...

"There!" I point to the center of the crowd to Aster's tiny, scared figure.

The boys surround him, grabbing his arms to keep him close and away from harm.

"Come now!" Effie speaks up in an uncharacteristically shaky voice and I spot fear in her eyes. "Let us not make this difficult by causing a scene."

A sudden rhythmic sound reverberates in my chest and I see a thick line of Peacekeepers marching in from all sides of the square, metal boots clanking. They close in on the group of boys, and a struggle ensues. I watch as the boy to Aster's right is elbowed out of the way by a Peacekeeper, blood gushing from his nose. Another is literally hauled off of his feet and thrown into the crowd with arms flailing.

Katniss makes a break for the thrashing group and I have to grab both of her shoulders to hold her back. "Katniss, no. "

Nothing good will come of another tribute entering this fight.

When it is clear the Peacekeepers have won, the townsfolk retreat, and Aster, now quietly crying, is dragged onstage. There is no one to volunteer for him this time. As soon as he is released, he runs to Katniss, his arms barely wrapping around her torso. I let go of her shoulders as she comforts him, suddenly feeling out of place.

I look away from Katniss and Aster and clench my teeth until my jaw aches. I feel as though I have hit a stone wall mid-stride, a wall that someone built to stop me. My volunteer - everything I wanted it to mean, the good in my intentions, and the people I tried to protect - was rendered worthless. Meaningless. Wasted. It was all for nothing.


End file.
